Ranolf and Amohia A dream of two lives. By Alfred Domett. New edition, revised |
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 | Ranolf and Amohia |  |
VIII.
Her simple story told, the MaidAsked in her turn the Wanderer's name;
Tried to pronounce it too; but still
With pretty looks of mock distress
And scorn at her own want of skill,
And tempting twisting lips no stain
Of tattoo had turned azure—found
“Ranolf” too strange and harsh a sound
For her harmonious speech to frame;
So after various efforts vain
“Ranóro” it at last became,
The nearest imitation plain
Her liquid accents could attain.
Thus, when at length they reached the shore,
Had found and freed and comforted
The damsel who at first had fled
(Poor little Miroa, weeping sore),
And launched the small canoe once more,
'Twas with a farewell kind and gay
She bade the stranger “Go his way;”
'Twas with her radiant ready smile
She started for the mountain-isle,
Which then, one mass of greenish gold,
Shone out in sharp relief and bold
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In solemn violet-gloom—grim, dark and cold.
| Ranolf and Amohia | |